


Who Taught You How to Dance?

by thekid



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Downey films)
Genre: Assholes (Free-Form), Cottage Cheese Skid Marks, Crack, F/M, Fluff, Fluff and Crack, Friendship, Friendship/Love, M/M, Two Dick Syndrome
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2014-01-10
Packaged: 2017-12-03 13:55:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 14,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/698975
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thekid/pseuds/thekid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In a completely un-predictable chain of events, the baker street boys find themselves obligated to attend a ball. But fucking calm yourselves, they aren't going as dates. Yet. Written as a gift so don't judge me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Chapter in Which John Watson Has Had Enough Holmes Bullshit

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Insatiable](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Insatiable/gifts).



John was woken up to the sharp sound of something probably penetrating a wall. His eyes opened foggily so he could stare at the crack in the corner of his ceiling. God he was so tired. Hours at the clinic, and Sherlock up last night on the violin, not even attempting to play anything that sounded even remotely like music, had certainly worn on him. Sherlock had even taken every last pair of his ear plugs for some sort of experiment. _It’s an experiment, John. No I couldn’t have gone to the store to buy some of my own there was no time, John. Really you’re the one being ridiculous, John._  


Sometimes John thought Sherlock specifically picked his experiments with the objective of pissing John off. Who even needs earplugs for an experiment? What would he even analyze? _It’s beyond your comprehension, John. Now go and do everything I ask while I sit here like an arse and burn things._  


Yes. Excellent. Right. Another day in 221B. Another morning Sherlock absolutely demolishes the wall. What the hell was he even doing? John, of course, found it infinitely useful that he was now able to distinguish the sound of subtle wall wreckage. The thud had vibrated a bit, so the object was probably deeply lodged into the wall. But it didn’t shake enough for the object to have been very large. John gave up. He was shite at deducing anyway. Sherlock would have been disappointed.  


The sound happened again.  


“Uaghhh, Jesus…” John moaned. His body began to mobilize, starting to display signs of motor coordination that indicated he was trying to get out of bed. He collapsed upright onto the floor and started to head to the living room, already shouting.  


“Sherlock!” his voice was husky from sleep. He cleared it.  


“Sherlock!” he yelled with a bit more conviction, “You are not blowing any more holes in our flat!” He reached the stairs, “Because believe me I’m not going to pay m-“  


The sight of Sherlock holding a crossbow in his dressing gown was something he was decently prepared for. The sight of Mycroft Holmes, however was not.  


As John finished his descent down the stairs, his look of shock morphed into a wholly new expression.  


Mycroft turned to face him, tapping his umbrella down in the new direction, and predictably gave him a small head incline. A cold smile faded onto his face.  


“Dr. Watson, how-“  


"Don’t Dr. Watson me.” John barked. After the experience of Mycroft’s visits had lost their unfamiliarity, John was no longer compelled to act awkwardly around the man, and with his day already meeting the description of bad after about thirty seconds in motion, he was not in the mood to deal with either Holmes. He almost smirked at the novelty of Mycroft’s surprise. Somehow he found himself savoring Sherlock’s expression more.  


"Have you been letting him shoot arrows into the wall?” John demanded.  


“Ceiling, John.” said Sherlock, who had recovered enough to roll his eyes.  


“And you!” John said, turning on Sherlock. “You’re going downstairs to apologize to Mrs. Hudson and to pay for the damage you've done.”  


He turned round to face both of them, raising a pointed finger to point accusatorily at Mycroft.  


“I don’t know what you’re here for,” his pointing range grew to include Sherlock, “but you two will conduct business like civil adults. Any bickering and so help me it will be a bad day for all of us.”  
He turned on his heels and stomped over to the base of the staircase.  


“I’m going to get dressed. Then I’m going to come down and make tea. Do either of you want anything?”  


Mycroft looked like a ruffled bird. He grandly smoothed himself into a typical waxy mask of composure. Ever the man of order, he muttered, “Thank you Doctor, tea would be-"  


“Well make it yourself, you both have arms!”  


And with that John strode up the staircase and purposefully shut his bedroom door.


	2. The Chapter In Which John Reflects About a Couch

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> heh damn

“Absolutely not, it sounds positively tedious.” said Sherlock, his fingers steepled under his chin.

John trumped down the staircase to the sight of both Holmes sitting, to their credit, rather cordially in opposite chairs. More specifically, Sherlock was on the couch and Mycroft was in _John’s_ chair. Neither of them registered John. He cleared his throat and marched smartly to the kitchen. 

There was a kettle boiling. 

He humphed and stared at the kettle, face scrunched up, debating. He looked in the direction of the two brothers, who seemed to be having a silent conversation through the simple power of their Holmes Eyes, then back to the kettle. 

It started to whistle. 

John swore under his breath and grabbed three cups. 

“Thank you, John.” said Sherlock without breaking eye contact with Mycroft. When John handed Mycroft his cup however, he broke his gaze to give John a smug smile. 

John decided that there was no point in trying to figure out what was going on. If they wanted him to know, they would tell him. Or Sherlock would. He wasn’t here to whip his head back and forth between them while they both drawled on about things mere mortals could only dream of understanding. 

But John decided that he would sit in on the face off, if nothing else but to make sure the two didn’t cause any more property damage. He settled down next to Sherlock. He felt oddly walled in. He supposed it was a bit unusual to sit this close to Sherlock. Their knees were almost touching. Usually he sat in the very chair Mycroft now saw it most prudent to occupy. He leaned back into the leather, air coming out of his lungs in the form of a sigh. He wondered when the last time he sat on this couch was. God, was he really thinking about that? Sherlock would be disappointed in him. This was his couch, by extension, yet he couldn’t remember a time when he had sat in it. It was Sherlock’s seat, and occasionally bed. He had probably sat in this couch when he first moved in. When had he stopped sitting here? He remembered sitting here once when he was ranting about the tabloids. Sherlock had been pacing about with the hat. But he rarely ever sat on the couch, and never together with Sherlock. There were so many bloody chairs in the flat anyway. Everything they did just seemed like a comfortably ram shackled routine. If they ever happened to be in the mood where both of them decided to coexist in this part of the living room, Sherlock would take the couch, and John the armchair. Sherlock would recline, and maybe sometimes keep his eyes closed so an outsider might think he was sleeping. But John knew he was always just thinking about something. And John would read the paper, or blog, or watch Sherlock. Which Sherlock must have noticed by now, of course. Sherlock notices everything. But he hadn’t said anything about it. John wondered why. Perhaps it’s because he’s caught Sherlock doing it too. But Sherlock’s gaze on him was far more clinical, as if John were an experiment to be puzzled out. 

Well, Sherlock and Mycroft were talking verbally now. John slipped back in to focus. He wondered if they had even realized he had spaced out. Probably. He sighed and took a sip of his tea, for a moment being torn between exasperation and self-consciousness. A mix John was very used to, so it quickly passed. 

“Sherlock, she specifically requested it. Be rational, dear brother.” Mycroft drawled. 

“I’m not some pet, Mycroft, to be ordered on a whim to do parlour tricks for a gathering of imbeciles.” 

“Yes, and what punishment socialization would be.” 

“No.” Sherlock stated as he bounded into a stand, his knee jostling John’s as he swept up. He strode across the room in one movement to pick up his violin by the window. 

Mycroft watched him move, but remained seated in his chair. He stared at Sherlock’s back as he looked out the window. His violin and bow were grasped in his opposing hands. The sun made his skin look white, even paler than usual. John could barely see his pupils, they were so reflective. Sherlock had yet to play. 

“Sherlock.” said Mycroft. But not in the way that a man starts a sentence, or begins an argument. It was a quiet utterance. A plea that John both knew and was ignorant of. There were many things that were left unsaid between all three of them. 

It was an allusion to his resurrection. 

Sherlock’s face didn’t alter. He continued to stare out of the window. John wondered whether he even saw the streets outside. 

Then he turned back in a flourish, pacing and playing his violin. 

“I want to see the Madison files.” said Sherlock. 

“Three days.” 

“One week.” 

“Fine.” 

“I will only be obligated to stay there for three hours.” 

“No, you will stay there as long as an honoured guest is socially expected.” 

“Three and a half hours.” 

“Five hours.” 

Sherlock sneered, “Fine.” 

“Anything else?” 

“John comes with me.” 

“Wait hang on,” John said 

Mycroft rolled his eyes. 

“Of course.” his words dripped with sarcastic politeness. Sherlock’s shot Mycroft a look of disgust. John felt as if both brothers had devolved to the civility of children. 

“Wait, Sherlock, what did-“ 

Mycroft stood up and gathered his umbrella. Sherlock straightened out. Their eyes bored into each other’s. 

“Give my regards to Mrs. Hudson.” 

“Well ok then, Jesus this is impossible.” John muttered under his breath. Mycroft turned back from the doorway. 

“Take care, Sherlock, John,” and with that he bowed out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dude i just ate like a fucking giant ass bar of chocolate im probably gonna break out tommorow


	3. The Chapter In Which John Assumes Things Awkwardly

“A ball.” 

“Yes.” 

John’s ears were getting red. 

“For an informer.” 

“Wife of an informer.” 

“The wife of an informer who helped Mycroft.” 

John wanted to add after you faked your fucking death by _blankety blankety blanking_ , but was almost terrified to. 

“Yes. Her husband gave Mycroft information about his crime web in return for a few things.” 

“Which include?” 

“Immunity for one, although he didn’t really need it, because he’s long since retired. He has no desire for money, so it wasn’t a debt Mycroft could easily repay. And now apparently a further reward will be indulging his wife. She was the reason he agreed to help Mycroft in the first place.” 

John rolled his head, then in a frustrated tone added, “And let me guess, we’re going as dates.” 

Sherlock looked exasperated and confused. 

“Why would we be going as dates?” 

John stopped short. 

“I-" 

Sherlock was starting at him. John was about two seconds away from going off when Sherlock rolled his eyes, 

“For God’s sakes, John, yes I know you’re not gay. I’m a genius, quit being so stupid.” 

“Yeah well,” said John, annoyed, “you’re always dragging me to these bloody places without giving me any clue as to what I should expect. And you always, you know,” John sputtered, “do…things and you say it’s for an experiment.” 

“It’s not my fault if you’re always sleeping John. I don’t understand how a person could require so much resting time. You always tell me not to wake you up.” 

“Not when you’re taking skin samples from my upper thigh!” 

“Well, it couldn’t wait until morning.” 

“YES IT BLOODY WELL-" John stopped and huffed, his being bristling. He brought a hand to his face and rubbed his eyes. 

“Sherlock, why would you invite me to a social event that isn’t for a case if it wasn’t because you didn’t need some sort of cover,” 

Sherlock sneered. 

“Honestly, John, is that all you could come up with?” 

John glared at Sherlock, standing straight and on the guard. 

Sherlock somehow even more dramatically rolled his eyes, which was emphasized by a quick turn on his heels to head towards the window, his dressing gown flourishing behind him, and his fingers already in motion over the strings of the violin. 

“This ‘ball’ undoubtedly will be dull,” he called, his back facing John, “considering you’re the most stimulating person I am acquainted with that is not a criminal, I chose to take you with me.” 

John was ridiculously struck by the normalcy of it all. It was like grade school; Sherlock was bringing his best friend along to his older brother’s boring, stuffy party, just because the pleasure of his company would make the occasion more bearable. He looked swiftly off to nothing, then back to Sherlock. He wanted to maybe say something to him. Like, ‘that was a bit good’. John cleared his throat. Sherlock would probably just think he was being strange. 

“Well, you’re just assuming that I’ll go along with you? You said you chose to ‘take’ me with you. I’m not here just to follow you everywhere.” 

John was for an eighth of a second horribly afraid that what he had said had hurt Sherlock, but the man quickly turned to face him. 

“John, will you go to the ball with me?” he asked the ceiling in a bored drawl, his head bobbing side to side sarcastically with each stressed word. 

John huffed and glared at him, waiting. Sherlock finally made eye contact with him, of course maintaining a very bored expression, the little prick. 

“Fine. But you have to tell me when it is, no jumping this on me at the last minute.” 

“Excellent.” Sherlock’s mouth quipped into a radiant, smug smile. He turned to face the window at last and began a simple but extremely elegant tune. 

John was struck by the smile, which had seemed so genuine, like the ones that constantly bubbled up at crime scenes or when Sherlock had finally cracked a problem. He quickly recovered, but was all the same glad Sherlock’s back was turned. 

“Right. Well. I’m going to go out to run a few errands.” John said. 

“We need more milk.” 

John shrugged on his jacket and smirked. 

“Ok.” 

Sherlock turned to stare at the door long after John had left.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it was supposed to be a bit more meta. you know cuz THEY ALWAYS GO AS DATEs. BECUAS EITS FOR A CASE JNOHn. A CASE CACSESE. A CASSEESESEEEEE.


	4. The Chapter In Which John is Forceably Taken Out

_So we went to the shop where one of the “suspects” worked according to Sherlock. Sherlock warned me not to tell the suspect that we working for the yard. It wasn’t long before we got a table and wouldn’t you know it but our waiter was the suspect! He was wearing all black. Well I mean, yes of course he was wearing all black because he was a waiter, but I mean he was also just dark. His hair was dyed black, and he had on some eyeliner and he had several of piercings on his face. I even saw a couple on his tongue! Sherlock leaned across the table and assumed his “charming” personality which_

The laptop was slammed shut. John blinked at the pale hand on the cover of his computer. 

“We’re going out.” 

John’s laptop was in his lap. Sherlock’s hand was on John’s laptop. Sherlock’s hand was in John’s lap. _For fucks sake Sherlock, boundaries_ John thought. 

“Did you, really just shut my laptop. While I was working.” 

“The evidence is right before you, John.” Sherlock replied sardonically. He finally removed his hand. 

John threw his head back into the seat and covered his eyes. 

“Sherlock for fuck’s sake…” He didn’t reopen his laptop. He didn’t even hear Sherlock waltz over to the rack, grab his coat, and chuck it aimlessly in his direction. Sherlock had awful aim. 

He smelled the leather before he felt it collapse on his face, which John thought was kind of interesting. He flung it off clumsily. 

“SHER-" 

“John, come _on_!” Sherlock was whisking on his own coat and had a foot out the door already. 

John let out a staccato of a huff. 

“Fucking…”he jammed one hand into a sleeve and stumbled after the man. 

 

 

Living with Sherlock Holmes was certainly a challenge, in its own twisted way. A way where he wouldn’t trade it for anything currently, but that’s a different story that John was definitely not going to talk about right now. 

Living with Sherlock Holmes was different from anything John had ever experienced. He found himself seeing excitement in every crevice of the city. And he now found himself in danger on a fairly regular basis, often quite unexpectedly. Which meant that living with Sherlock Holmes constituted a need to be prepared for the unexpected. 

John had been dragged both figuratively and literally to crime scenes, museums, hospitals, and pretty much everything else by one Mr. Sherlock Holmes in the name of a case. He had been toted along to restaurants regularly by that same man during his post-case bliss, however usually this was something of a joy for John, not that he would ever admit it. Sherlock’s eyes would gleam against the stupid awkward candle Angelo always placed confidently at their table. His ungloved hands would move and flicker as he described all the things he hadn’t told John at the crime scene. He always kept parts unsaid for John. Not the best parts, of course, he liked showing off far too much. But Sherlock would always save little tidbits of deduction that he would never tell the officers, or Lestrade; nothing that would jeopardize the case, always something relatively meaningless. Like, _the victim came from a wealthy family initially but abruptly distanced themselves when they reached adulthood_ , or _judging by the state of the nails of the woman we interviewed, she had some rather unusual bedroom habits_ , or _one of the clerks at the jewelry shop has been stealing from them for the past several years, but it’s such an incremental amount nobody even notices_. 

Little facts that were insubstantial to everybody but Sherlock. They weren’t even relevant to the case, but Sherlock remembered them and would sprinkle them into the conversation in substitute for social skills and “normal” chatting. Not that John minded. 

He would watch Sherlock and his flickering fingers and his bright eyes against Angelo’s dumb candle and the words “amazing” and “incredible” would just tumble out, which sometimes John was a little embarrassed about because he couldn’t even control his own praise anymore. 

But when Sherlock’s face got even brighter against the candle and godammit why was there so much light in this fucking restaurant he wasn’t embarrassed anymore at all. 

So he’d been lead by Sherlock Holmes into a variety of unusual places, all in the name of _the case_ , which is why John didn’t bother questioning Sherlock as he half jogged after him. He watched him hail a cab in under six seconds, something John was annoyingly jealous of, and looked out the window silently while Sherlock texted. 

John had been watching Sherlock’s fingers absentmindedly, wondering how a person could text that fast. Hell, he couldn’t even type that fast. The cab wasn’t even slowing down when Sherlock muttered “we’re here” without looking up or even faltering. 

John leaned over to look out the window at their destination, which happened to be on Sherlock’s side of the car. He leaned farther over, trying his hardest to get a good look. He was curious after all. 

The car was slowing down and stopping in front of… a café? No wait, a dress shop. Costume shop. Sherlock had stopped his text without sending it. 

“What?” John looked down at him. 

“Nothing.” Sherlock said sharply, opening the door in one fluid motion and leaving John alone in the cab. The cabbie looked at him expectantly. 

“So what’s going on?” 

Sherlock had resumed his texting. 

“We’re obviously shopping, John.” 

“Er, ok, for what?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gestured widely to the shop, without taking his eyes off his phone. 

“Right, erm, so what’s the ca-" Sherlock snapped his phone into his pocket and jetted off into the store leaving John to bustle in after him. 

The store was in reality not all that large, but was made to look extremely grand due to all the ostentatious hangings and drapes. Bohemian style tassels and fabrics were everywhere, pillows bubbled forth from woven seats. Glass bobbles hung from the ceiling, and a small crystal chandelier was floating right on top of what looked like the till desk. Costumes billowed from all crevices of the shop, obscuring some pathways, so John had no way of knowing how truly large the area was. There were so many fabrics and patterns and comforts to the place it was practically suffocating. 

John himself would have never chosen to shop here for anything. It was flamboyant, even for Sherlock. But as far as investigating went, this was a nice place to look around. It was interesting and comfortable at least. 

“Sherlock Holmes! Excellent, excellent!” the man behind the till blended perfectly in with the scene. He was plump with greying auburn hair, and his cheeks were shaded a bright turnip red. His burgundy velvet suit could have been a conservative costume, and his moustache made it look as if he should have a monocle on rather than the horn rimmed glasses he donned. He bounced over to grasp Sherlock’s hand firmly, wobbling it in front of them excitedly. He smiled up to Sherlock so brightly that John knew that Sherlock must have gotten him out of some pretty deep water. What this silly man could have possibly been accused of however, John was completely clueless to say. But then again living with Sherlock had taught John that people were never what they appeared to be. 

“Ah and who is your ‘friend’, eh?” John could practically visualize the air quotes, but tried to ignore it. 

“Mr. Bell this is my good friend, John Watson. John, Mr. Horace Bell.” 

John was a little shocked and pleased at Sherlock’s address. 

“Pleased to meet you m’boy!” said Bell, vigorously shaking John’s hand. “Never saw Sherlock as the type of lad to settle down.” He stage muttered knowingly to John, slipping him a wink. John tried to retract his hand but Bell was pumping it far too violently. 

He opened his mouth to interject. 

"We’re not a couple.” Sherlock said coldly, and as if it was the most obvious thing in the world. 

Bell looked as if Sherlock had just slapped him. His smile dampened so hideously for a moment that John felt sorry for the man. 

“Goodness, terribly sorry, my mistake.” Bell said wistfully looking at Sherlock, flustered. 

“It’s fine,” John said, giving Bell a tight lipped smile, “really, er, happens all the time…actually.” 

The words felt odd coming out of his mouth. 

Bell’s face lit up once more and he clapped his hands together. 

“Well, I will have to re-think this a bit! But not to worry boys, not to worry!” He tutted off into the jungle of linen and lace, morphing into the store and making John unable to distinguish the individual words that were cheerfully directed at him. 

John glared at Sherlock. 

“What was that all about?” he whispered sharply. 

Sherlock rolled his head and sneered a bit, his shoulders popping up an inch. 

“If Bell thinks we’re dates, he’ll select complementing outfits, which you would have had objections to.” It was a matter of fact, apparently. 

“Well, you didn’t have to be like that! Honestly, Sherlock…” 

“Honestly, _what_ John, you all but proclaim your heterosexuality during every social interaction we share. I was merely saving you the effort both of conversion and politeness.” 

John was angry at Sherlock’s logic. He picked another battle. 

“You didn’t tell me we were going shopping for costumes.” 

“What would be the point, you would have followed me anyway.” 

“No, this is ridiculous! Why would I even want a costume? If it’s for another one of your bizarre cases, you should have just picked me one! ” 

“You’re uncomfortable.” 

John sputtered. 

“What?” 

“You don’t want to be here.” 

“You’re damn right I don’t want to be here, what the hell, Sherlock? 

“You feel as if your masculinity is being scrutinized.” 

“Wha-NO. That’s not true, why would it even matter? The only two people in here are him and you!” 

Sherlock glared at a nearby mannequin in the opposite direction of John. 

“It’s not for a case.” Sherlock spat. 

“Well then, why are we here?!?” 

Sherlock’s collar had wilted a bit. He popped it up again. 

“The ball is a masquerade. Costume dress is required to attend.” 

John wanted to yell at Sherlock some more. What the hell is he even-oh. That ball. They hadn’t talked about that in over a month. 

Yes, this surely was Sherlock. Being Sherlock and doing Sherlock things. 

“I _specifically_ asked you not to jump things on me!” 

“You told me not to “jump” the actual date of the ball on you, if that sentence even makes any sense. How would I even go about “jumping” an object on you, much less a metaphysical plan?” 

Bell reappeared before John could strangle Sherlock. 

“Alright, the stage is set! Sorry I didn’t have it cleared for you, today is usually my off day!” 

“Terribly sorry,” John said, “we can always come back another time-" _Or not at all._

“No, no son, not a problem at all! I’ve been waiting for a chance to get even with Sherlock, not that I ever could. It was my idea after all, Sherlock merely mentioned in passing that he was rather adverse to the notion of shopping and dressing with all these other people milling about.” 

'His' idea. John gave Sherlock a pointed look. 

“Well come along boys, two handsome young men such as yourselves, it’ll be a delight!” 

John watched the man disappear once more into the sea of costumes, entirely bewildered. He might have laughed at Bell’s flamboyance if he wasn’t so put off with Sherlock. He grew increasingly more curious as to what Sherlock had cleared him of. 

Sherlock stepped after Bell and John expected him to vanish in a similar fashion. However he paused right before the “entrance”, sweeping back a particularly obstructive dress. 

“After you,” he smirked. 

John sighed, scowled, and marched through the gap, ever soldiering on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahahhah 2what am i even doing with my lfie


	5. The Chapter in Which John is Pushed into a Room and Has the Door Slammed Behind Him

John Watson had absolutely no taste for this sort of thing. Everything in this store screamed _posh, unnecessary, gay_. But after a short walk battling through tailcoats, boas, and robes (John now suspected Sherlock had let him go first so he could clear the path), John had to admit that as far as posh, unnecessary, gay stores went, this one had style. 

John stumbled into a clearing that was set up almost like a wedding shop, and was surprised at having made that connection having only been in one once for Harry’s wedding. It was an ovular space, with a circular platform about two feet high in the middle. The platform had stairs on two opposite sides, one leading to a row of red curtained dressing rooms, each big enough to comfortably house a horse, and the other to a lounge like area where people could presumably sit and view the costumes. There were mirrors on the unoccupied sides that covered about 180 degrees of the area. John had to admit that while the space was extremely extravagant, he found himself thinking that the room was rather classy. The area was well lit, without being overpowering. 

He saw Bell bustling about turning more lights on. 

Sherlock emerged behind him, in the process of slipping off his gloves and pocketing them. 

“Sherlock, this is…fancy.” 

“Brilliant powers of observation, John.” 

John furrowed his brow. Did he honestly expect any less? No, this _was_ Sherlock, only the best for him. 

He lowered his voice to a threatening growl. 

“Sherlock, I’m not wasting my money on some costume for a stupid ball.” 

“Oh don’t worry about that! It’s on me; I could never repay Sherlock enough!” Bell called over from a rack of coats he was re-arranging. John wondered how he could have possibly heard. 

Sherlock gave him a shrug and a smug smile. John wanted to stomp off a few feet, but he was absolutely clueless on what to do, and was forced to remain by Sherlock’s side. 

“So is there anything in particular you gents would like to see?” Bell had appeared in front of the two men and was beaming as brightly as the buttons on his coat. 

John crossed his arms and looked at Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked to Bell, then to John, then about the room like he owned the place. 

“I’ll leave it up to your discretion.” He said cooly. 

Bell nodded and shouted, “Wonderful!”He bounced off. 

John swung his arms behind his back, looked about the room once more, and then made his way to the nearest armchair, sitting down with an awkward sigh. 

Sherlock looked peculiarly at him, remaining standing. 

“Well I might as well get comfortable.” John said defensively. 

Sherlock quickly turned his back to John, and stood silent. He suddenly jerked into action and began pacing about the room, glaring at the costumes as if he were determining every single person who had ever worn them, which he probably was. He continued to circle haughtily, his stride would have looked almost purposeful if he weren’t going in a loop. He seemed to tire of deducing, because his eyes soon began to shift over the objects rapidly, though he still stepped angrily in the enclosure. John’s eyes followed him like a tennis spectator. Finally Sherlock, stopped abruptly at the end of a step, turned and tapped over to John, sinking rigidly into the chair next to him. 

John tsked and tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair. _This man._

“So this event is a masquerade, yes?” John heard Bell from a distance. 

Sherlock nodded lazily. 

“He can’t fucking see-“ 

Sherlock looked to John expectantly. 

“Er, yeah. Yes! It is.” John called, then whispered to the other man, “I swear to fucking God Sherlock Holmes, I have killed people before.” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and smirked. 

 

 

There were many things that living with Sherlock Holmes made you accustomed to; for example, the feeling of giving up. John Watson was a stubborn man, but living with Sherlock had made him more level headed and compromising, which John thought was rather strange. And while John still blew up occasionally when things just became too frustrating, he found himself becoming more patient and forgiving. 

However there were many things that happened while living with Sherlock Holmes, no matter how frequently they occurred, you never got used to. One such experience was the feeling of absolute hate and love for the same human being simultaneously. 

Sure John had loved men in the army. They were friends, brothers even. John had hated his enemies. He had hated Moriarty, Mycroft at one point, and even one of his ex-girlfriends for a while. But even with his long and prolific dating history, years in combat, and rather extensive collection of friends and acquaintances, John had never had such strong feelings of awe, affection, and comradery directed toward an individual that were then immediately followed by a desire to strangle sed individual. 

Somehow the love always won out. It was just in John’s nature. 

Another thing that happened often in John’s friendship with Sherlock Holmes that John could never get used to was a certain phrase that always echoed in his head. _Why did I let Sherlock do this._

That phrase continued to reverberate through his being as he stood stiffly on the platform, his face almost red with a blush were it not so tan. 

“Marvelous! Absolutely marvelous!” Bell seemed close to jumping up and down in excitement. 

“Uh, no.” 

John felt absolutely silly in his costume. He was standing at the back of the platform, too embarrassed to come any further. He was wearing a blue military coat with one row of intricate silver buttons in the middle of his chest. The collar was high and covered most of his neck, and had a braided silver leaf pattern etched onto it. The jacket had silver epaulettes with stringy tassels. The coat ended mid-waist, but had tailcoats that continued on in the back. He had on a pair of crisp black pants, although he had to roll up the cuffs, thinking he could just wear one of his own pairs of dress pants. His own street shoes looked out of place against the 1800s style uniform. Upon exiting the dressing room, Bell had thrust some sort of large and ridiculous military hat on his head. It had the shape of a flattened pirate hat, and was all black except for some sort of insignia on the right corner of it. 

“We still need to pick a mask! And where are the gloves, m’boy?” 

“Er…” John had jammed the silken white gloves into his pocket before exiting the dressing room. There was only so much a man could take. 

Bell had been in such a flurry, grabbing all kinds of things from every corner of the store with amazing speed and alacrity. John was shocked that he had been able to navigate around the mess. Bell had thrown the apparel into one of the grand dressing rooms, then grabbed John’s arm, herding him toward the ready room, all while babbling at break-neck speed. It wasn’t until the curtain was closed behind him that John had realized what had actually been picked out for him. 

He kept his eyes fixed straight ahead and twiddled his ornate cane. It was for decorative purposes, but somehow it made him embarrassingly uncomfortable. _Oh grow a pair_ John thought. He was going to quit being such a bitch and get through this, whether he liked it or not. His embarrassment about the whole situation made him even more uncomfortable. 

“Sherlock, get your arse out here!”Being on such obvious display would have been more bearable if Sherlock was standing next to him in equal discomfort. John re-assessed that the likelihood of Sherlock being in any type of discomfort was slim, and would probably strut out of the dressing room like a runway model, but reflected that Sherlock’s presence would at least make him feel better. However, the man was still in the bloody dressing room taking his bloody fucking time. 

Sherlock had been the first to get a costume, even following Bell around the store to help choose, and had entered the dressing room willingly, rather than being careened like John. After he had decisively swished the curtain shut, John had thought that if any man could slam a curtain, it would be Sherlock Holmes. 

Yet he was still in the room and John had a moment of realistic thought where he saw himself swishing back the curtain to find Sherlock in whatever stage of undress he was in, tell him to hurry the fuck up, then close the curtain and stomp off. 

However as soon as he found himself forming this thought he immediately told himself that the idea was both very very bad and very very gay. I mean, he had been in the army. He had violated multiple social boundaries in the name of fun and embarrassment, and it had all been fine. But something about the fact that this was Sherlock made almost every situation seem…more intimate? They barely even touched, both men preferring to call the other’s name rather than tapping their shoulder. They had embraced a total of maybe five times, depending on the definition of the term. Many of those hugs involved one holding or supporting the other. The only time that could have really truly been considered a somewhat loving embrace, Sherlock had a bloody nose, John’s knuckles were white from gripping the back of his coat, and they had somehow fallen to be kneeling on the floor. Sherlock always leaned over John, whether it was to look at what he was working on, get something in front of him, or to simply notify him he was “bored”, but he never bent to the point of contact. They were always like that, close enough to touch, but they somehow never did. 

He had seen Sherlock naked before. The man seemed to have no shame. I mean he walked around in a naught but a sheet some mornings and when there were no towels in the shower the bastard just _why am I thinking about this_ John screamed at himself. 

“Rome wasn’t built in day.” Sherlock called poshly, which was possibly the gayest thing John had ever witnessed him say. For some reason, this was the funniest thing that could have possibly happened to an embarrassed and fidgety John Watson, because he immediately burst out laughing. 

“What?!?” Sherlock whined from behind the curtain. John buckled over, laughing even harder. 

There was some aggressive rustling. Suddenly, the fabric whipped open to reveal Sherlock, who looked confused and utterly furious by his confusion. He stomped out very contrarily to a runway model. John was laughing too hard to even see clearly. He leaned forward and dropped his head so he could only see the ground, still laughing like a maniac. 

“I don’t understand, what’s so hilarious?” Sherlock snapped. Bell seemed less confused than Sherlock, but was still undoubtedly unsure of the situation. 

John’s laughter settled down. 

“Nothing.” He panted and lifted his head. 

Sherlock was wearing a hat. A pirate hat. Sherlock was wearing a pirate’s costume. 

He was wearing a black coat that had detailed swirly patterns sewn into it. The cuffs were tapered and had particularly intricate gold designs on them. The coat was long and billowed behind him like his normal one. Every seam was lined in gold. The coat opened to reveal a dressy vest over Sherlock’s own white button up shirt. He wore a belt with an obvious shiny buckle and a red sash. His pants were also a dressy black, but on his feet he wore a pair of what could only be described as pirate boots. And his hat had a feather. John wanted to laugh some more, but found he couldn’t. Once you got over the fact that Sherlock was in fact dressed as something of a pirate, he actually looked rather dashing, even though technically his wardrobe was sillier than John’s. The entire outfit went together perfectly, and Sherlock was well enough able to carry it with his usual dignified swagger. 

John straightened up. Sherlock eyed him up and down. 

“Oh.” He said. 

He looked at himself in the mirrors. 

“Hm.” He added. He looked back to John. 

“Yes yes, I know, get a good hard look.” 

Sherlock chuckled. John joined in. 

“Well, don’t you two look just dashing!” Bell pipped. 

“I am not wearing this.” John said smiling. 

“Oh but please do, Mr. Watson, it would mean the world to me.” Sherlock faked a pout. 

“I’m not overboard for matching costumes, but I think we’ll look a bit strange if we show up together like this.” 

“What do you mean, we match perfectly. You uphold the law, and I make sure the law needs to be upheld.” 

John laughed, finally looking up at himself in the mirror. He turned around a bit, still giggling. He actually didn’t look that bad. 

“Well, you’re welcome to wear that costume if you want to, Mr. Holmes, but I’m afraid you’ll be rather solitarily ostentatious.” 

Sherlock put his hand dramatically over his breast. 

“You wound me, Doctor.” 

The next minute they were both bent over laughing as Bell rolled his eyes affectionately and quietly ducked out to get some more costumes.


	6. The Chapter in Which John and Molly are Bros

Something crinkly and airy hit his face. John wondered how he still managed to be surprised, he should have the endurance of a wall by now for all the things Sherlock threw at him. John jerked up from his almost half zone out nap thing because fuck Sherlock and his ability to stay up for days on end to look at the perpetrator. 

“Oh my god, sorry, John, sorry!” Molly squeaked. 

John looked down. It was his favourite bag of crisps. 

“I was at the machine and thought you might want something. I tried to throw it in front of you but I have terrible aim!” 

“No Molly, s’fine, better than fine. Cheers.” John smiled at her. How did she know his favourite flavour? 

Molly smiled one of her Molly smiles. There was the bashful one, where she would go a bit pink. There was the sympathetic one, where some of the sadness that she kept up inside turned around in her eyes. And there was John’s favourite Molly smile, the simple pleased one. The one where she was just happy to have done a good deed. Molly was a good person and John appreciated her for it. More than he would be able to tell her. 

John didn’t really feel all that bad anymore that he didn’t know Molly’s favourite type of crisps because at least he knew about her smiles. 

“It’s not very often Sherlock feeds you so…” she shrugged, knowing full well what a simply kind gesture it was. 

John chuckled and rubbed his face. 

“You make it sound like he’s my handler.” 

Molly glanced over from her work with a knowing grin. 

“Speaking of the devil, where is Sherlock?” John yawned. 

Molly tittered and rolled her eyes. 

“He left about an hour ago.” 

John buried his face deeper into his hands. 

“Yup. Yeah of course he did.” His voice came out a bit muffled. Molly giggled. 

“I didn’t want to wake you. You looked like you needed the sleep. And he probably would have woken you up if he even slightly needed your help, which is normally always.” 

John laughed. If there was one thing that was nice about Sherlock’s resurrection, it was Molly. She had changed a bit in the last three years. Grown stronger, he supposed. She did have to carry his secrets on her shoulders for such a long time. She wasn’t intimidated anymore by Sherlock either. John wondered if Molly had seen Sherlock at his absolute worst. What would that have looked like? Did Sherlock think of him? 

John ripped open the bag with a pronounced tweak. Molly took a bite of her muffin. They weren’t supposed to have food in the lab. 

There was a comfortable silence. 

John lapsed into thought and Molly continued her work. Maybe he fell asleep. When he surfaced he had no clue what time it was in the windowless room. He checked his watch. It was nine in the evening. He cleared his throat pointedly so Molly looked over. He tapped his watch. 

“Your shift ended two hours ago.” 

“Oh, I guess I just lost track of time.” 

John straightened up. 

“You really like working here, yeah?” 

“I guess I do.” She smiled and shrugged. 

“With all these dead people?” he teased. 

She started putting stuff in her bag. “Well, usually dead people are easier to deal with than the living.” She looked up at John and gave him a Molly smile, the sad sympathetic one. 

John nodded and got up. He walked over to her and leaned against a counter while she finished packing her things. They both walked out together. 

“So what are you doing this weekend?” John asked. They were outside and the air was cold. John saw a puff of white accompany every word he uttered. 

“Oh, I don’t know,” Molly shrugged her bag up higher, “guess I don’t really have anything planned. I might visit my sister. What about you?” 

They reached Molly’s car and stopped. 

“Uh, I think Sherlock’s got something planned. Some sort of ‘ball’ thing.” 

Molly clasped a hand to her mouth. 

“Oh!” 

“What?” 

Molly waved her hand dismissively and giggled. 

“ **What?** ” 

“It’s just-nothing. Things make sense now. Sherlock was going on about something and I had no clue what he was saying. As usual.” 

John rolled his eyes. 

“Yeah, but he can get pretty choked if you don’t do what he ‘says’. Sometimes he asks me to do things when I’m not even in the flat, then gets ticked about it later when I haven’t done anything.” 

They both laughed a little at Sherlock’s expense. They could do those things now ever since he came back. Molly sighed quickly after, smiling another sad Molly smile. 

“Sometimes he can be such an idiot.” 

“You’re telling _me_.” John said. 

“Believe me John, you’re just as capable of stupidity as he is.” Molly half teased. 

“Why, because I put up with him?” 

They both had another comfortable laugh. 

“Not really,” Molly added as the laugh faded away. John giggled a bit more so by the time he was done, it wouldn’t have been easy to ask Molly what she meant by that. 

“Well, I better be off.” John said, rustling around. 

“Oh, right! Night, John!” 

John began walking toward the street to hail a cab. Molly unlocked her door and threw her bag in. John waved to her as she drove out of the lot and stared at her taillights until she rounded a corner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes i havent updated in a while. i had lots of essay and hospital time my bad. but viva la johnlock or somethign


	7. The Chapter in Which John Does Something and I'm Getting Tired of Naming These

It was no big deal, right? John Watson was a man of his word. When he made a commitment, he kept it. So far, Sherlock had upheld his end of the bargain (kind of). 

He straightened his tie. He adjusted his cuff links. 

He was having second thoughts. 

_Who cares?_ John thought, _I’m never going to see these fucking people ever again._

Well he was gonna do it. He was going to attend a ball with Sherlock. A ball where the attendees all had enough money and free time to spend on formal masquerade costumes. A bunch of pretentious rich people, all at one event, who would probably look with disdain at him and Sherlock. Hours upon hours of tedious small talk that, while Sherlock thought he did, John enjoyed no more than the detective. 

He straightened his tie again. He shoved on his white gloves. They looked stupid. He shoved them back into his pockets. Besides, his hands were sweaty enough as it was. 

Going to a ball with Sherlock Holmes. 

_People will think we’re gay._

So what? People did that all the time anyway. Sherlock and John knew exactly how the other felt. They were strictly platonic, thank you very much. It didn’t matter what other people thought, all that mattered was what Sherlock thought. I mean, what John thought. Who cares what all those rich snooty pricks think? 

Ok, for some reason, John cared a little bit. Just like he cared whenever anyone thought Sherlock and him were a couple. He had stopped really denying it, getting tired of doing it over and over again. And the exasperated look Sherlock always gave him. John was getting tired of being the only one to defend their relationship. It was never Sherlock who stepped in to to give John a break. He was stubborn that way. Or maybe just lazy. Just three words, Sherlock. _We’re not gay._ Sherlock always just scoffed whenever John looked frustrated by it. Sherlock said that he didn’t care what other people thought. They were stupid and bound to be wrong most of the time. But John knew better. He knew Sherlock cared. 

John patted his styled hair. He thought it looked kind of cool, but knew that it probably looked stupid. 

He had been through a war, godammit. Why was he getting so worked up over a ball? Maybe he was, as Sherlock said, a bit uncomfortable in his masculinity. But he _was_ straight. People went to things as fucking friends, didn’t they? Why did everyone always fucking assume Sherlock and him were a couple? 

John had messed up his hair. He styled it a bit, until it was as close as he could get it to its state a minute ago. It looked like shit now. 

He snapped his mask on. Simple, clean, as straight as he could get one. He looked at his full body in the mirror. The suit looked ok, but the face looked absolutely ridiculous. Whatever. 

He grabbed the top hat and marched downstairs, giving up and just simply trying to smooth his hair back. His shoes made a unique sound on the floor. 

“Sherlock!” He called from the base of the staircase. 

“Sherlock!” He paced about the front room, heading toward the main mirror. 

“What?” Sherlock called from his room. 

“You ready yet?” He carded a hand through his hair. Yeah, he had certainly fucked that up well. 

No response, but he could hear Sherlock rolling his eyes. It was hard to get Sherlock to even clean himself, but when he did decide to get dolled up, he seemed to take forever. 

The mirror hadn’t always been here. It had been an odd day when they had bought it, against John’s better judgment, wholly expecting Sherlock to break it within the first few days of ownership. But somehow it was still here. He remembered dressing in front of this mirror before they went off to the courthouse. Sherlock had looked good that day. John had to admit that he had looked rather suave as well. Too bad right now, he just looked silly. 

He whipped off his mask. He just really couldn’t wear that thing. 

“Sherlock!” John tapped his foot impatiently. He marched over to the nearest seat. It was Sherlock’s chair, but it was facing Sherlock’s room preventing Sherlock from sneaking up on him. He leaned back into it resting his hands on each side. He crossed his legs and sighed, drumming his fingers. He looked up at the ceiling and counted the number of puncture marks. 

“John.” 

Sherlock was standing in the middle of the room. How did he get there? He was always so quiet. 

Well he looked good as always, no real surprise there. The attire fit stupendously better on him than it did on John, as he had suspected. Sherlock practically radiated luxury, and shone in something as fancy as a suit. He managed to wear the top hat, gloves, and mask without looking like an imbecile. 

“Finally.” John stood up and grabbed his hat. He had one hand on the door before he looked back at Sherlock who was still standing in the same position. 

“Your hair.” 

“Yeah, I know.” John grimaced and his hand flew up to pat it down. 

“Here.” Sherlock glided over and put his hands to John’s head. It was a little awkward, but nice. 

“There.” John looked to the mirror. It looked even better than it had originally. 

“Wow. Thanks.” Sherlock nodded. 

“So you ready to go?” John asked. 

“Obviously.” 

“Yeah. All right then.” John opened the door and they stepped through together.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i really wanted to publish this on 420


	8. The Chapter In Which Sherlock Cannot Use a Crossbow

Mycroft is here. It should take him about a minute and twelve seconds to get to the door, which he will not knock on, of course. It takes John forty three seconds to get to the door. It may take Mycroft longer if he’s gained even more weight. 

Might as well annoy Mycroft as much as possible. Too much work, getting up. There’s a crossbow on the table and it’s already in Sherlock’s hands. He loads it from his lying position on the couch. Still a minute and four seconds. If he shoots it too soon, Mycroft won’t hear it. If he shoots it too late it might hit Mycroft depending on how much weight he’s gained. Sherlock is sure by now Mycroft has gained weight, less through deduction and more through observation of habit and general optimism. 

The thirty seconds of waiting are practically torture. Waiting is absolutely the worst thing in the universe. No it’s not, Sherlock can think of forty, fifty, sixty things right now worse than waiting. 

Time has passed. Sherlock can’t keep track of time exactly if he’s got too much going on in his mind. Good thing he doesn’t right now. All he’s thinking about is Mycroft, his diet, John sleeping upstairs, and eighty things worse than waiting. 

Because a minute has passed since he knew Mycroft was here. It’s absolutely the time to shoot right now. Sherlock aims toward the door, too obvious, can’t think of anything more creative, aims for right above the skull. 

He misses by about four feet. 

Moving on. 

He loads the bow again, lackadaisically so Mycroft will catch him in the act, as if he would even believe for a second that Sherlock didn’t know he was coming. 

And the queen arrives, standing in the doorway fat as ever with her umbrella. 

And frustratingly not any fatter. 

“Morning, brother dear.” 

And the game is on. 

“I suppose congratulations are in order. Parting with the dessert tray must have been such sweet sorrow. Even if you have taken a mistress in third helpings.” 

And here they are yet again. Always the same conversation, just in a different form. They only said aloud what the other already knew they would say. Sometimes Sherlock thought it was ironic, yet sensical that the things left unsaid were the only things that the other could not deduce. 

Sherlock gets up and aims randomly, so Mycroft won’t think that he’s trying for a specific target then know that he missed it. 

The arrow slams into the ceiling with a definite thud. 

On cue, Mycroft rolls his eyes. 

On cue, he taps his umbrella and enters the room. 

On cue, Sherlock loads another arrow. 

_The ball is in your court, Mycroft._

“I’m flattered. But perhaps congratulations are in order for you as well. That is, unless the matter hasn’t been discussed yet, and I am mistaken.” 

Of course he was mistaken. He knew he was mistaken. Sherlock hadn’t said a word. 

Aim. 

Shoot. 

Thunk. 

They played these games well. They both knew they were putting on a play too. Yet they still did it. It was the easiest way to interact. The safest way. Sherlock was glad to get back into it. He deeply regretted breaking the routine after the incident, but then again, things were different. It’s nearly impossible to be normal when you’re dead. It was true that they could not read the other’s minds. They said aloud what they knew the other would know, as if that disqualified the deduction. But never spoke about the things that the other was unable to deduce. It was easy. It was safe. But Sherlock had made an error. He had broken the pattern. Sherlock cursed himself, angered by the whole situation. 

“What do you want?” he said in a monotone voice. 

Mycroft took to the change gracefully, as it was a common detour. Sherlock was the first to parley. He bowed into the new subject. 

“I’m here to extend an invitation from Mr. and Mrs. James Hight for a formal dinner.” He reached into his coat pocket and produced a flowery card. He tossed it onto the table, knowing Sherlock would not receive it. 

Sherlock reloaded his bow. 

“Your attendance has been specially requested.” 

“Of course it has.” 

Thunk. 

Silence. 

Not silence, he hears John awakening from upstairs. Sherlock is a bit pleased. Things are always so much less boring when John is awake. How a man could need so much sleep, however, was a different matter. 

He hears John screaming his name from upstairs. 

John will most likely be slightly tiffed about the walls, but not too terribly. Sherlock suspected that he would sigh and then go make some tea. Excellent. 

Mycroft was being Mycroft, getting his usual pleasantries out of the way. He played the game with everybody he met, not just Sherlock. 

“Dr. Watson, how-“ 

“Don’t Dr. Watson me,” John yelled. Sherlock was taken aback. He gaped at John. How could something so seemingly ordinary be so full of surprises? 

“Have you been letting him shoot arrows into the wall?” John was still yelling at Mycroft. Sherlock was rather enjoying it. Even if he was being talked about like a three year old child. 

“Ceiling, John,” He smirked. John should really have known that. 

“And you!” John was yelling at him now. Sherlock cringed. 

“You’re going downstairs to apologize to Mrs. Hudson and to pay for the damage you’ve done.” 

John stood firmly in the middle of the room like an enraged bulldog. Sherlock found himself being slightly intimidated, which made him mind-bendingly curious. 

He was busy processing his unusual reaction, but he did hear John yelling at the two of them to behave. They were behaving. They were always behaving. The only difference was that Sherlock was simultaneously shooting a weapon. 

John was at the base of the staircase. 

“I’m going to get dressed. Then I’m going to come down and make tea. Do either of you want anything?” he said tersely. 

Mycroft’s expression was laughable. But Sherlock dared not laugh. 

“Thank you Doctor, tea would be-" 

“Well make it yourself, you both have arms!” 

John stormed off, leaving both of them to look at each other. 

Mycroft cleared his throat. For some reason the atmosphere felt awkward and unusual, like it had a few times after the incident. 

Sherlock glared at his brother, who seemed confused by his reaction. Sherlock trudged abruptly off to the kitchen to boil some water.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> uhhh i just reread this and theres a lot of tense errors i think but im not going to fix them and say its artistic


	9. The Chapter In Which Sherlock Thinks About Tea

The apartment was so quiet. It wasn’t as if John made a lot of noise to begin with, it was mostly him making all the noise. Explosions, shouting, throwing things. It was true, Sherlock barely noticed when John was gone. But Sherlock had just seen the man exit their flat, and was now extremely conscious of how absolutely empty it was. 

He put the violin down. For some reason it didn’t seem appropriate. Playing it felt like he was the only person humming in an abandoned room. He chided himself for being so unreasonable, but refused to pick it up again. 

He stared out the window again, where he had watched John hail a taxi. Sherlock knew he would be back in a couple of hours, he could tell John only had errands to run. 

He had been gone for sixteen minutes. 

There was still plenty of daylight left. Not that it mattered to Sherlock. He could care less what time of the day it was. However, everyone else seemed pre-occupied with doing things only during the day. 

Maybe John would want to go to lunch when he returned? Or would he have already eaten. Usually John would want to come home hungry so he could convince Sherlock to go eat something. But if John was feeling awkward today, one of the emotions Sherlock had difficulty with, he would most likely grab something to eat on his own, maybe even eat out with Stamford or Lestrade. Not Lestrade, he was completing an influx of paperwork. No, he would eat alone. John, for the most part, didn’t like spontaneity. 

Sherlock was frustrated. If only John were normal. He hated to admit that even today, Sherlock still underestimated John, and could only predict his actions with maybe 70% accuracy, the lowest of any individual he had known for over a month. 

It baffled him. Why was John such a complexity? All logic pointed to the fact that John was blindingly average, predictable, worthy of Sherlock’s attention only because of his slightly sharper than average wit and loyalty. He wasn’t a genius, not by a long shot. Yet why, _why_ was Sherlock unable to dissect and understand him? How could he not take him apart and analyze every fibre and neuron within John Watson, as he was able to do with practically everybody else, if he so desired? He had certainly spent a generous amount of time in the pursuit, but every time he seemed to have it all categorized, John would aggravatingly, delightfully, surprise him. 

Sherlock knew that the only people who would come close to understanding him were fellow geniuses. Mycroft, The Woman, Moriarty. They were all able to understand him in different ways, they all had cracked different parts of him to use to complete their own codes. Yet here was John, who had no ulterior motive to de-construct Sherlock, but had done it anyway. Perhaps that was what friendship was. Perhaps John went further. There was no way for Sherlock to know as he had never had a friend before, he could only guess. How disturbing. 

Even stranger was the suspicion that John possibly knew him even better than all of the geniuses combined. If this suspicion were confirmed, it would be the most significant discovery Sherlock had ever made. 

Eighteen minutes. For God’s sakes, what’s taking the man so long? He wouldn’t be gone for the full two hours, Sherlock was sure. Unless of course he got lunch, which Sherlock was still debating. Perhaps Sherlock could text John to tell him that they were to get lunch together. 

Preposterous idea, Sherlock never texted John about things like that. It was always John who made Sherlock go out to lunch. And it would be especially peculiar given the atmosphere John had left. Or perhaps Sherlock was over-thinking things. It was both his great pride and shame that he could not predict and understand certain actions of human behavior with as much accuracy as a “normal” person. 

Damn it all, why couldn’t he simply file this away and do something productive? This was absolute lunacy. He would go out. An unusual approach, but perhaps he could find something worth his stimulation. Maybe even drop by the yard to see if Lestrade had any cases for him. 

Ah, but that would require dressing. Not that he cared if the entire population of London saw him in his pyjamas. He threw his robe off and strode to his room, assuming it had landed on the couch. He needed socks at the very least. He had discovered that while John would occasionally wash an article or two of Sherlock’s clothing, he drew the line at doing entire loads. And while before Sherlock had only dry cleaned the typical variety of shirts and trousers, he now had to resort to collecting clean clothing exclusively from the dry cleaners. Sometimes John would be too stubborn to pick his clothes up, leaving him to lounge around either in his pyjamas or naked under a sheet until Sherlock finally paid a member of the homeless network to do it. Apparently, dry cleaning socks was a rather unusual request. 

Plenty of clean socks today, just as he knew there would be. He put them on and walked back to the living room. He slipped on his shoes and coat. He looked fairly ordinary in his t shirt and grey pyjama pants and decided that it would indeed be an acceptable outfit to go out in, not that he cared if anybody looked or didn’t look. The shoes were of course out of place, but dress shoes were the only shoes he owned. He ferociously swung open the door and marched out, slamming the door behind him. 

“Sherlock!” he heard a faint call from downstairs. He would need to hurry quickly to avoid Mrs. Hudson unless she was already at her door. He descended the stairs to find Mrs. Hudson opening her door. 

“Sherlock dear, what’s all the commotion? Did you and John have another domestic?” 

She was in her night clothes and had just woken up considering she wasn’t aware John had already left. Obviously. 

“John’s out.” He replied curtly and walked past her. 

“Sherlock! Sherlock where are you going in such a hurry? And dressed in your jim jams? I’ve never seen you like this!” 

“Out!” Sherlock called behind him. He opened the door to the street. 

“Sherlock!” Sherlock heard Mrs. Hudson shuffling behind him. 

Sherlock stepped onto the street. 

“Taxi!” 

“Sherlock! Stop this nonsense right now and come inside!” Mrs. Hudson called from the doorway. 

“Oh, stop being so dramatic Mrs. Hudson, Taxi!” 

“I’m the dramatic one?” Sherlock felt a tug on the sleeve of his coat and was surprised to see Mrs. Hudson standing there looking up at him in her house coat and slippers with a determined expression on her face. Sherlock was stunned. 

“I know this isn’t one of your usual tantrums so come inside before you kill yourself.” 

A taxi pulled up to the curb to witness a grown man in pyjamas being led by the wrist back inside by a frail looking woman in a nightie. 

Mrs. Hudson continued to drag Sherlock to her door, but finally released him as she crossed the threshold. She moved to the stove, probably due to her and John’s shared preoccupation with tea. Sherlock followed her in reluctantly, knowing that if he fled right now there was a slight possibility Mrs. Hudson would call the police. 

It smelled faintly of tobacco. From a cigarette? No pipe tobacco, most likely. Mrs. Hudson doesn’t smoke. 

Sherlock closed the door behind him, but continued to stand in front of it, even beginning to put his hands in his pockets before Mrs. Hudson peeked over and commanded him to sit down. Sherlock took a seat, noticing that she had had a visitor recently, who required angling their chair to accommodate a bad leg. 

So the recent visitor was someone Mrs. Hudson was familiar with, otherwise she would not have allowed him to smoke in her home. Probably a man, women rarely smoked pipes, it was just statistics. She had made efforts to clear the smell out, but not to disguise the fact she had a visitor but because she disliked the smell. Was the scent pungent to her? Or possibly it was…sentiment? Could a scent cause somebody to have an emotional reaction? 

Sherlock could hear Mrs. Hudson putting the kettle on the stove and turning the knob. Why was there so much tea involved with “awkward” conversation? Was tea meant to be a soothing element? Perhaps the combination of heat and sweet taste from the liquid was meant to relax you? 

Mrs. Hudson was fast approaching so he reclined in his seat and set his face to neutral. His fingers tapped the surface of the table restlessly. She sat down in the opposite chair, wrapping her gown around her body. Perhaps she was cold. 

“So what’s all this about, then?” she asked. 

“Can a man not leave his own house and go out for the day?” Sherlock quipped smoothly. 

“Oh hush you, you’re being a bit of an idiot now. A man wouldn’t leave his own house and go out for the day in pyjamas and not expect to be questioned about it. Especially by his ever suffering landlady.” 

Mrs. Hudson was lucky she was Mrs. Hudson. 

“Sherlock, dear,” Mrs. Hudson started gently, “is everything alright? With you and John?” 

“Mrs. Hudson if you must know, I’ve recently become obligated to attend an event and John has agreed to accompany me. That’s really all.” Honestly Mrs. Hudson was making a far bigger deal out of this than it really was. Or at least from what she knew. 

“Well then why were you about to leave the flat in such a rush?” The lady’s face shone with an expression. Sherlock stared and most closely matched it with sympathy. 

“I wanted to go out.” 

“Is there something you have to do, dear?” 

Sherlock opened his mouth to respond with his obvious goal, but finding none quickly snapped it shut and scowled. 

“I got bored.” 

Mrs. Hudson was obviously having a hard time understanding, which Sherlock could unfortunately not blame her for. Leaving the flat in his pyjamas wasn’t a normal activity for Sherlock to do. He quickly gathered a list of go to activities he performed when he was bored. Bother Lestrade for cases, perform experiments, conduct research on the internet, play the violin, go through John’s computer, visit the morgue. Only two of those things required leaving the flat, one not even necessarily as he could always angrily text Lestrade for details on new cases and possibly force the man to deliver them right to his door. In hindsight, Sherlock supposed that due to his feeble difficulty with paperwork he wouldn’t have been able to give Sherlock any cases, thus leaving the flat was necessary. However, this was a thought in hindsight and was not originally in his consciousness at the time he left. 

Mrs. Hudson continued to frown and look directly into his face, which bothered Sherlock for some reason. He looked off to the side angrily not knowing what to say. 

“John will be home in an hour.” He said as a way of summarizing that they were both fine, that everything was fine and neither of them were mad at each other. 

Something seemed to suddenly dawn on Mrs. Hudson because her face softened and Sherlock most closely related her expression to affection. It was very similar to a look his own mother had given him on occasion. She patted his hand and he had no idea why. 

“Well as long as you two aren’t fighting.” 

He nodded robotically. 

She stood up. 

“Now you stay right there and don’t move. I won’t let you leave until you eat a biscuit.” 

She tottered off to get the tea. Sherlock had never been more confused.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was a gift for someone so by fucking jove im going to finish it


	10. The Chapter In Which We Unexpectedly Experience the Same Motherfucking Afternoon from Sherlock's Perspective

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im sure that this was a shock to everyone including myself

John sitting on a chair. His chair, John’s chair. Although realistically it belonged to both of them. Sherlock wouldn’t have minded if John had been sitting on his couch. Then he could observe him better. Sherlock wouldn’t have even minded if John had been sitting on _his_ chair. Although he never did. Coffee table moved two and half feet. 

John’s feet on coffee table, unusual? There he is again working on his laptop obviously writing another completely horrible and grammatically flawed blog post. High probability about something Sherlock had done. John’s entire blog, devoted to a singular subject, Sherlock. Obsessive? No, people didn’t seem to think so. However whenever Sherlock wrote an entire essay on different types of pen filaments, it was-words used to describe it: unlikeable (John), boring (Lestrade), different (Mrs. Hudson), perhaps a bit too specific (Mrs. Hudson, again). Sherlock’s writing was significantly superior to John’s, yet John’s blog was massively popular, regrettably more than Sherlock’s own. If so many people wanted to hear about the great Sherlock Holmes, why wouldn’t those same idiots want to hear about the astronomically more interesting things _he_ had to say? 

He had been staring at John from the door frame for forty six seconds now. John scratched his head and his face scrunched up, his brain probably struggling for the next thing to write. Sherlock found that he quite liked John’s face at that moment, despite the fact that it indicated John had a feeble mind, which Sherlock knew wasn’t necessarily true. Sherlock had found himself enjoying John’s various expressions, for some reason they were so interesting to look at on his face. 

John honestly typed at a glacial pace. But Sherlock loved to watch him type because his expressions would grow slightly frustrated occasionally, always to be followed with a rewarding beam of confidence when John found what he was searching for. Disgustingly pleasant. 

That was quite enough observing; almost a minute had already passed. John was so blissfully in tune to his laptop. How unusual, Sherlock thought. Sherlock was able to focus on multiple things at once. But then again, John was usually so environmentally aware, ever on the alert for danger. Possibly, John felt extraordinarily safe here? 

It was easy to stride over without his notice. Stealthily closing his computer was child’s play. 

“We’re going out.” Sherlock said. 

John seemed to be struggling to process Sherlock’s hand, his face becoming frustrated yet again. 

_Oh, John._

“Did you, really just shut my laptop. While I was working.” 

Honestly, this was taking forever. 

“The evidence is right before you, John.” Sherlock bounded over to the coat rack while John was still elementally collecting himself. And there he goes again, complaining like a bristling bulldog. Sherlock heard him but refused to take note as he grabbed John’s coat, _powder from a cookie on the right sleeve, been talking to Mrs. Hudson_ , and aimed it towards the arm of his chair. 

It hit his face. Precisely of course what Sherlock intended. 

_Dammit._

“John, come _on_!” Sherlock slid both arms simultaneously into the separate sleeves of his coat and left the room in one motion. John would be following him in three seconds and right behind him in fourteen due to Sherlock’s significant advantage on stride length. 

Sherlock reached the street. 

“Taxi!” 

One quickly pulled up and Sherlock slid in, at which point John was able to easily slide in after. He grabbed his phone and immediately began firing off texts to Lestrade who was supposed to be giving him a new case file. John was staring at him. He wasn’t surprised, considering he had no idea where they were both going. Sherlock couldn’t observe John’s face to know exactly what he was thinking about, but he thought it was probably along the lines of more profanity tinged with slight curiosity. 

A bump in the road preceded by a left turn meant that they had arrived. 

“We’re here.” 

And then John leaned forward. To go where? He was clambering over to Sherlock, who drew his hands closer to his body defensively. Sherlock watched John’s neck stretch out and his jaw tense, straining to get a look out of the window. His bottom lip pushed out slightly and his eyebrows furrowed. His eyes looked like shattered glass as they reflected the bright but foggy day outside. 

Those eyes snapped to Sherlock’s face. 

“What?” 

Sherlock realized he hadn’t sent his text. 

“Nothing.” Sherlock snapped angrily. He needed to get out of this car and on to more important things. He stood on the sidewalk bent over his phone until John joined him. 

Sherlock heard the taxi drive away. 

“So what’s going on?” 

Sherlock wanted to snap at John again, he kept distracting him. 

“We’re obviously shopping, John.” 

Sherlock heard John shift his weight. 

“Er, ok, for what?” 

Sherlock waved in the general direction of the shop. He needed to finish this text it was taking far too long. If only John would stop shifting his feet and breathing. He could tell John was biting his lip. 

Then John started to say something so Sherlock pretended to send the unfinished text and strode off in the direction of the store. Sherlock tried to garner some satisfaction by making a dramatic entrance, but found he was too irritated with John. 

Bell looked up from his desk. Slept poorly last night, had a fight with his partner. Three short white dog hairs on his vest right above his left hip. Moustache slightly damp around upper lip, brushed his teeth within the past five minutes. Scented hair and moustache wax, heavy cologne, covering up a smell. Sherlock grabbed his hand. It smells like tobacco and brandy around his fingernails. Been drinking. Bell looked into Sherlock’s face. He knows that Sherlock knows. However Bell knows that his friend (John) won’t notice. His eyes twinkled. Bell was genuinely happy to see him. Sherlock thinks to himself that he doesn’t mind dealing with this man. In a way, he reminds Sherlock faintly of Mrs. Hudson. 

“Ah and who is your friend, eh?” 

“Mr. Bell this is my good friend, John Watson.” Sherlock looked over to John. He had his hands behind his back and looked to be about the sturdiest thing in the room. His face was friendly but guarded. 

_John, how do you still impress me?_

“John, Mr. Horace Bell.” Said Sherlock, waving a hand between them. 

“Pleased to meet you m’boy!” Bell began attempting to dislodge John’s arm from his socket. “Never saw Sherlock as the type of lad to settle down.” 

Sherlock watched John’s face become nervous and for some reason it terrified him. He needed this to go as smoothly as possible. 

Bell continued to idiotically ramble as Sherlock watched John swallow and open his mouth to say something. 

“We’re not a couple.” The air in the room grew colder. Sherlock looked from Bell to John. Both looked stunned, though Sherlock didn’t quite understand why John would be upset. 

“Goodness, terribly sorry, my mistake.” Bell clipped. 

“It’s fine,” said John, giving Bell a tight lipped smile. Angry. Uncomfortable. “really, er, happens all the time…actually.” 

What was John doing? He was the one that always objected to them being seen as dates. It was ridiculous actually. Sherlock didn’t care and neither should John. How anyone could let other’s opinions run their lives was awful. 

Bell jumped around John a bit more, then retreated into the store. Sherlock wished he wouldn’t. 

“What was that all about?” John directed at Sherlock. 

“If Bell thinks we’re dates, he’ll select complimenting outfits, which you would have had objections too.” Honestly sometimes Sherlock felt he knew John better than John knew himself. 

Somehow John was still upset. How could he be, when Sherlock had simply reacted to the situation in the most logical way possible? 

“Well you didn’t have to be like that! Honestly, Sherlock-“ 

“Honestly, _what_ , John, you all but proclaim you heterosexuality during every social interaction we share. I was merely saving you the effort both of conversion and politeness.” Sherlock said acidly. He couldn’t think of a time when he had been more irritated with John. Actually, he could think of three times, possibly four if you counted the night after Buckingham Palace, but that night had been a combination of both good and bad feelings, but no more than four. 

“You didn’t tell me we were going shopping for bloody costumes.” A divergent. Very mature, John. 

“What would be the point, you would have followed me anyway.” 

He was screaming again. He thought this was for one of Sherlock’s cases. Hands slightly twitching, signs of his tremor acting up. Eyes were slightly erratic. Adams apple bobbing more than usual. 

“You’re uncomfortable.” 

Sherlock was right. Posture not as stable, ready to anticipate movement. 

“You don’t want to be here.” 

More screaming. Tightened jaw, squared shoulders. Chest tilted up slightly. 

“You feel as if your masculinity is being scrutinized.” 

“Wha-NO. That’s not true, why would it even matter?” _You’re lying John._ But Sherlock had a feeling that this deduction was one of his few that could be proven wrong. This area wasn’t his strong suit. 

“It’s not for a case.” Sherlock said, silencing John for a second. 

“Well then, why are we here?” 

Wasn’t it obvious John? Why wasn’t it obvious? Was it possibly not obvious? 

Sherlock found himself popping his collar up. 

“The ball is a masquerade. Costume dress is required to attend.” 

Sherlock could feel John’s brain working. Finally he had gotten it. 

John was still finding things to yell at him about. Apparently not ‘jumping’ things on him had included going shopping, which Sherlock could recall they had both done together before without prior planning. They had been to Tesco, an Ikea, and even into a clothing store once. What made this any different? 

Sherlock explained this and still found John to be in an aggravated state. It was a good thing Bell would be interrupting shortly. 

“Alright, the stage is set! Sorry I didn’t have it cleared for you, today is usually my off day!” 

“Terribly sorry,” John said, “we can always come back another time-“ 

_See I was right, John. You do want to leave._

“No, no son, not a problem at all! I’ve been waiting for a chance to get even with Sherlock, not that I ever could. It was my idea after all, Sherlock merely mentioned in passing that he was rather adverse to the idea of shopping and dressing with all these other people milling about.” 

Bell looked over to him grinning widely. Sherlock returned with one of his public smiles. 

“Well come along boys, two handsome young men such as yourselves, it’ll be a delight!” 

_The game is on, John._

Sherlock moved to sweep back a dress at the entrance of the chasm. 

“After you,” 

John scowled at him, but bravely went through. 

  

It was extremely suitable, as he knew it would be. Bell had the most tasteful costumes in the area, and the stage was magnificent. 

John was taking it in as well. 

“Sherlock this is…fancy.” 

“Brilliant powers of observation, John.” 

John tried to argue with him but Bell piped up. He smirked at John, who he could see biting the inside of his mouth. 

“So is there anything in particular you gents would like to see?” 

John looked to Sherlock. He would be forced to reply. 

“I’ll leave it up to your discretion.” 

Bell, clearly excited, left the room. 

Sherlock was still looking in the direction of the tunnel Bell had foraged with his recent escape when he heard a sigh behind him and the depression of a leather arm chair. 

John was sitting proudly off to the side. 

“Well might as well get comfortable.” He said. 

Sherlock turned as not to face him. This infuriating man. What was he even _doing?_ Sherlock was trying to dissect his behavior yet again. He realized he was thinking about John too much and began to pace about the room, shifting his eyes from costume to costume, taking a snapshot with his mind and analyzing it while his eyes traveled to the next article. Worn at a wedding, champagne spilled on left corner. That hasn’t been worn in three years judging by the fabric discoloration facing the lights. That mask in the case is the most expensive thing in the room. 

Bell was taking forever. It was no use. He was just going to have to think about it. He stopped immediately and walked to sit next to John. 

John seemed amused. This bewildered him. 

Bell yelled something and he nodded. 

“He can’t fucking see-“ John hissed at him. 

Sherlock turned his head to him. 

“Er, yeah. Yes! It is.” John yelled. “I swear to fucking God, Sherlock Holmes, I have killed people before.” 

It was something about the intensity of the statement, yet absolutely no potential of an actual threat that made something small in Sherlock’s chest light up like a fire. 

He rolled his eyes at John and smirked. Then when John quickly turned his head to look toward the rustling fabric of Bell’s pathway Sherlock’s smirk seeped into a full smile. 

  

Sherlock stood in his dressing room and flicked through what Bell had brought him. The man had a keen eye, Sherlock had to admit. Everything was coordinated perfectly; it could have almost been possible that he had picked them all out for himself. Sherlock, of course, knew how and where to put everything properly on. He methodically dressed himself while thinking about John’s erratic and unusual behavior. Why was John so bent on defending himself? Sherlock knew that people were more likely to get defensive when they had something to hide. Yet Sherlock knew that John was a straight and confident man. He wasn’t uncomfortable in his masculinity usually. But he was adamant in defending his sexuality. Was it because he didn’t want to be perceived as a gay man? Or was it because he didn’t want to be perceived in a relationship with him, Sherlock? Was it because he disliked labels? Scratch that, doesn’t seem right. Was it because it simply wasn’t true? There was something about the situation that seemed to make John uneasy, but Sherlock couldn’t deduce what it was precisely. 

“Sherlock get your arse out here!” _Honestly John, at least I didn’t require Bell’s help to put on some of the garments._ Costumes and disguises required tact and patience. 

“Rome wasn’t built in a day.” 

And then Sherlock heard raucous laughter. John’s laughter. 

_What could possibly be so funny? Was it what I just said?_

“What!?” Sherlock called over to John. He quickly buttoned the last button of his coat and pulled it down harshly, smoothing it. He could hear John roar with laughter from behind the curtain. 

He threw back the curtain to see John leaning over a bit, a hand grabbing one of his knees, still laughing. At the sight of him, John bent over even further. 

Sherlock blushed quickly, but the redness could have been confused for anger. 

“I don’t get it, what’s so hilarious?” Sherlock yelled at John. He needed to calm down, but he was so confused and Sherlock hated more than anything being confused. 

“Nothing.” John said. He was still looking at the ground coughing up laughter. He looked up and Sherlock glared at him. He gave a few more chuckles before stopping completely, his face almost wiped. 

He straightened up. John was dazzling, but a bit too unusually. 

“Oh.” Sherlock muttered. “Hm.” 

John rubbed the back of his neck and straightened up even more. 

“Yes yes, I know get a good hard look.” 

Although the costume was ridiculous on John’s stoically un-flamboyant self, he pulled it off surprisingly well. If they had been going to a less serious event, it would have been perfectly acceptable. And if John had employed his naturally easy-going nature and charm, he would have surely stolen the show. 

“Well don’t you two look dashing!” Bell’s voice sounded softer than usual, though he was speaking with his usual exuberance. 

“I am not wearing this.” But John continued to smile genuinely. 

“Oh but please do, Mr. Watson, it’ll mean the world to me.” Sherlock found himself wanting to laugh again. 

John shook his head good naturedly as he gestured toward himself and then Sherlock. 

“I’m not overboard for matching costumes, but I think we’ll look a bit strange if we show up together like this.” 

“What do you mean, we match perfectly. You uphold the law, and I make sure the law needs to be upheld.” 

Sherlock found it to be a bit like flirting when he and John did this, as the closest thing he could relate this to was when he had needed to seduce somebody. This was far more entertaining than forcing expressions though. 

John was looking at himself in the mirror. Sherlock grinned and waited for him to turn around so they could continue to banter. 

“Well you’re welcome to wear that costume if you want to, Mr. Holmes, but I’m afraid you’ll be rather solitarily ostentatious.” 

Sherlock’s brain felt bright. Endorphins were being released into his system, neurons firing telling him that this conversation was pleasant. That he was enjoying himself in John’s company. That this is all he wanted. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson. John and him, friends. His only friend, the only one he needed. He pitied those who had to feel lonely. He just needed to make sure that John would want to stay in his company for the broad foreseeable future. John would be there to help him solve cases, and exist in the flat, and smile and call him brilliant, and to be ok with Sherlock’s work being so important to him. 

Sherlock put his hand to his breast. For some reason this seemed both natural and dramatic. 

“You wound me, Doctor.” 

_He really could. If he wanted to._

Could he? Sherlock hoped not. That was too much power for one person to have. Even if it was John. He trusted John with his life, but he wasn’t sure he trusted John with his emotions, however sparse they might be. 

Then John started laughing again and Sherlock had to join in. It was just all too wonderful.

**Author's Note:**

> i am going to hell. #johnlockififeellikeit #iamastraightman


End file.
